Just A Coincidence
by Ross7
Summary: Is Johnny really clairvoyant? Or is it all just a co-incidence. You decide. ;
1. Chapter 1

"**Just A Coincidence" **

By Ross

**Chapter One**

Both crews of LA County Fire Station 51's A-shift were being kept particularly busy. The six men had been experiencing back-to-back runs, ever since falling in for morning roll.

* * *

Gage and DeSoto were returning from their latest hospital follow up. The two men had missed out on lunch. But, with a little luck, they'd make it back to the Station in time for supper.

John's empty tummy rumbled in anticipation. Stoker was cooking that shift, and their engineer made _the best_ fried chicken.

* * *

They made it to within a few blocks of their stationhouse, when the tones sounded—in stereo, coming from both the HT resting on the seat between them…and the truck's dash-mounted radio.

"**Squad 51...Man down...**" the dispatcher went on to announce, "**1517 East Mullen...Fifteen-Seventeen East Mullen...Cross-streets Ada and Wilkens...Ambulance responding...Time Out: 17:17.**"

"10-4, LA," Gage acknowledged, jotting the address down on a call slip. "Squad 51 responding," he signed off and replaced the radio mic'. "Two blocks and hang a right," the Squad's navigator informed its driver. Then he clipped the call to their log and quickly donned his helmet. 'Oh, well,' he consoled himself, 'Mike's chicken is finger-lickin' good—hot or cold.'

That is, if Kelly would be so generous as to leave them any.

His silent partner switched their truck's lights and siren on, and then donned his helmet, as well.

* * *

Less than five minutes later, their radios squawked to life again.

"**Squad 51...Cancel,**" the dispatcher advised.

The paramedics exchanged a pair of solemn glances.

DeSoto flicked the lights and siren off and eased up on the accelerator. Roy glanced back in his partner's direction and watched, as a strange look suddenly came over his friend's still-solemn face. "What's the mat—?"

"—**Squad 51,**" LA interrupted. "**Do you copy?**"

Gage snatched up the mic' and thumbed its call button. "Roger, that, LA. Squad 51 available...Returning to quarters."

"**10-4, 51...**"

"What's the matter?" Roy repeated.

"Nothin'," John assured him. "It's just that…on top of such a…hectic day…we don't need an inspection!"

His partner looked completely lost. But then a light bulb went on in his boggled brain. "Oh-oh. I get it. The _cancelled_ call. Right?"

Gage looked even glummer, and nodded.

It was just one of those inexplicable, quirky, fluky things. After every _cancelled_ 'man down' call, Station 51 _always_ received a visit from headquarters.

Roy rolled his eyes. "Johnny, we just got inspected last week. There's no way we're gonna get _another_ inspection _this_ soon!"

Johnny stared at his skeptical partner, looking astounded. "Ro-oy, don't you remember what happened last month?"

His partner looked pensive. "Yeah. Yeah. That was a bit beyond just pure co-incidence, all right. And I must admit—if it weren't for the fact that we just _were_ inspected—I might be tempted to clean my locker when we get back."

Gage scribbled a big 'CANCELLED' across the call slip and clipped it back to their dash-mounted log. "I'd say the dorm and the showers are probably the worst spots," he determined, un-donning his helmet and clipping it back into place. "Although, I haven't seen the rec' room yet." He gave his watch a quick glance. "Man! I sure hope THEY hold off for a few hours..."

Roy gave his eyes another roll. "We just _had_ an inspection."

"Yeah...I know," his partner conceded. "Odd, ain't it...that we'd be gettin' another one _so soon_!"

DeSoto's shoulders sagged in defeat. He exhaled a weary sigh and then drove on…in silence.

* * *

When the famished firemen finally reached their Station, about five minutes later, Engine 51 was not parked in the apparatus bay...and there was no tantalizing smell of fried chicken in the air.

The pair exchanged pained expressions.

However, before the garage's heavy door could even begin to grind to a close, their absent colleagues returned.

"These guys must be just as starved as we are," Roy reasoned, as Stoker maneuvered Big Red in beside their Squad.

But his dogged associate's brain train had already switched tracks. "The inspection!" Gage exclaimed and started racing toward the locker room.

"Hold it, pal!" his Captain called after him, and the fleeing fireman obediently skidded to a stop.

Stanley studied the statue's bloodstained uniform for a few moments. "Change your shirt and then see about getting some grub on."

"But—" the stalled paramedic began.

"—I know, I know," his Captain quickly informed him. "But I've decided to give that sore shoulder of yours a break." A remorseful 'jumper' had leapt from an eighth-story ledge, earlier in the day, and latched onto the paramedic's left arm. The guy, who outweighed Gage by a good fifty pounds, had nearly wrenched the paramedic's shoulder from its socket. The doctors had cleared John for duty. Hank, however, was only willing to clear him for _light_ duty. "Which means, I want to see you cooking, instead of cleaning. So, as of right now, you and Roy are trading tasks."

"But," Gage began again, "Roy's not cookin', Cap."

Stanley aimed a stern gaze in DeSoto's direction.

"I'm expecting a phone call," Roy explained. "And I wanted to take it in the dorm. So Mike and I swapped duty assignments."

That seemed reasonable...enough. "Tough break," Hank told his now frowning—and stuck with latrine duty—engineer, and started strolling towards his office.

Mike's scowl deepened.

John gave his unhappy replacement a slight shrug, before obediently leaving for his locker.

Roy gave their engineer an apologetic glance, and then disappeared, himself—in the direction of the dormitory.

Chet and Marco exchanged highly amused looks, and then reluctantly headed over to the hose tower.

Mike just stood there for a few moments, moping. "No good deed goes unpunished," he grumbled beneath his breath, before finally leaving for…the latrine.

* * *

Hank Stanley placed his freshly brewed cup of steaming black coffee down on their _empty_ dinner table and collapsed exhaustedly onto a chair. 'We prob'ly should a' picked up some pizza…' he glumly mused and then glanced up, as his newly designated cook _finally_ came scurrying into the kitchen. "How can it possibly take you _fifteen minutes_…just to change your uniform shirt?"

"Sorry, Cap," Gage apologized. "I sort a' straightened my locker up a little. Then I had to rinse my uniform in cold water, so the stain wouldn't set—" he stopped, right in mid-explanation, and stared around the Station's messy rec' room in shock and disbelief. "Quick! Somebody, give me a hand!" the panicked paramedic pleaded.

Hank and his men watched—in complete bewilderment—as their cook suddenly went dashing around the day room, snatching up all the newspapers and magazines that had been scattered about.

The engine crew exchanged odd glances and then turned to their Captain, to witness his reaction to the paramedic's bizarre behavior.

"C'mon!" the periodical collector continued. "THEY could be here _any minute_!"

Stanley saw the strange looks on the faces of his men. He was wearing one to match. "Ga-age?"

John stopped and stood there, with his armload of reading material. "Yeah, Cap?"

"I'm all for policing the area. In fact, we'll get right on it...right _after_ we eat."

John looked shattered. "But, Cap—"

"—Ga-age," Stanley sternly repeated, "you don't want to bring the _beast_ out in your Captain, do you? When I'm hungry, I'm like a lion...with an empty stomach...I start _roaring_!" Hank added, his already raised voice rising even further in volume. "Chet, Marco, why don't you two _speed things along_," he ordered more than asked. "You can start by setting the table."

The smirks vanished from the two men's faces. Reluctantly, they peeled themselves up out of their comfortable chairs and began shuffling towards the cabinets and cupboards.

The distracted chef quickly set his bundle aside and obediently crossed back into the kitchen. John jerked the door to the fridge open and then stood there, studying its paltry contents...waiting for some inspiration. 'Food for thought,' the fireman figured silently, latching onto an apple and taking a big, juicy bite out of it.

"We gonna need plates?...Or bowls?" Kelly queried.

Gage stuck the apple in his teeth and began pulling the refrigerator's contents out onto the counter. "I-on't-ow-et," he answered, through a mouthful of fruit.

Chet's focus shifted from china to _Chinese?_ "Huh?"

The paramedic placed some produce on the counter and then pulled the apple from between his teeth. "I sai-aid, I don't know yet. I'm still thinkin'..." He stashed the apple back in his mouth and stared pensively down at the countertop full of food.

"Well, think _faster_," Lopez urged, as he began setting out the silverware. "My stomach knows it's already 45 minutes _past_ suppertime."

"Have you decided yet?" Kelly re-inquired, his voice filled with growing annoyance.

"Huh?" the cook, who'd been only half-listening, came back.

Chet sighed and pointed up into the open cupboard.

John popped the apple out again. "Oh." He stared down at the crowded countertop, looking thoughtful. "Bowls...I guess."

Chet began reaching for the bowls.

"No," the cook corrected, "No-o, better make that plates."

The Irishman rolled his eyes and reached for the plates—but didn't touch them.

"Wait..." John urged. "Bowls."

Kelly exhaled an exasperated gasp.

Gage shot his helper an apologetic glance. "_Definitely_ bowls."

Kelly remained skeptical, but obligingly reached up and removed six bowls from the cupboard.

Lopez set another spoon down and then paused, looking somewhat confused. "Are we having _company_ for dinner?"

The rest of the guys glanced at one another, looking more than a bit puzzled, themselves.

"We-ell," Marco continued, upon catching their questioning stares, "John said THEY were gonna be here. I was just wondering if THEY are gonna eat here?"

The men gazed at one another again, and then turned to Gage.

The paramedic was so preoccupied with planning his meal, that he hadn't been paying any attention to the conversation.

The Captain cleared his throat—repeatedly—and the still seemingly lost in thought fireman finally turned to him. "Are they?"

"Are they what?" Gage wondered.

"Going to eat here?"

"Oh. Gee...I don't know. I doubt it, though. I mean, THEY don't usually do that sort a' thing."

Stanley and his men exchanged mystified glances.

"Who?" all four firemen asked—in unison.

John opened his mouth and was just about to reply—when the Station's tones sounded.

"**Squad 51...**"

The paramedic tossed his half-eaten apple onto the counter and began exiting the kitchen.

Hank rose stiffly to his feet and headed for the call station.

"Ah, ma-an!" Kelly griped, sounding tremendously disappointed. "And it was just getting interesting, too! THEY were on their way here. And whoever—or whatever—THEY are, THEY don't usually eat..." He paused, looking shrewd. "THEY must be vampires."

Stoker and Lopez grinned, broadly.

Stanley returned, stepped up to the counter, and then stood there, staring down at Gage's _attempt_ at fixing dinner. "I don't get it…"

The men gave their leader sympathetic glances.

"Trust us, Cap. You're not alone!" Kelly assured him. "But _we're_ guessin' vampires."

"No," Hank continued. "I meant _this_!" He made a face and motioned to the odd assortment of food Gage had managed to accumulate on the counter. "What was he going to **do** to it...so that we'd need _bowls_?"

Mike Stoker stepped up behind his Captain and peered over his shoulder. "Luckily for us…we'll _never_ have to find out."

His fellow firefighters grinned and snickered.

Hank's grin gradually faded and he began issuing—er, _roaring_ orders. "Stoker, stick this stuff back in the fridge. Lopez, clear the table. Kelly, call for pizza." The Captain—er, hungry lion then took his coffee from the table and his leave from the kitchen.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

"Just A Co-incidence"

**Chapter Two**

Calls continued to come in to LA County Fire Station 51, at a rather alarming—and unrelenting—rate.

At 22:37 that evening, both trucks were toned out to assist 127's with their structure fire.

* * *

The structure on fire turned out to be an old grocery store in a run-down neighborhood. The rather dilapidated wooden-framed building was already a quarter involved.

* * *

Hank received his orders from the Incident Commander and he and his crew headed off to perform their assigned tasks. Stanley had been informed that their pump wasn't needed, which meant that all six of 51's firefighters were free to attack the blaze—and attack it they did!

* * *

Flickering flames illuminated the far end of the smoke-filled grocery aisle Stanley and Stoker were crawling along.

Suddenly, just up ahead of them, through a haze of smoke, and by the fire's dim glow, Station 51's Captain was able to discern the silhouetted outline of a body—a man's motionless body! Hank halted their line advancement and handed full hose control over to his second in command, freeing both of his gloved hands up to reach for, and thumb, his HT. "Engine 51 to Squad 51…" he spoke, as loudly as he could through the clear plastic shield of his facemask.

"**Squad 51**," Roy quickly came back, his voice also sounding muffled. "**Go ahead, Cap…**"

For a split second, Stanley was tempted to say, _'Victim in Aisle 6'_, but then thought better of it. "Gage, DeSoto, report to Aisle 6—on the double! We've got a _man down_ here!"

"**Roger that, Cap. Johnny and I are on our way."**

Hank quickly re-thumbed the HT's call button. "Engine 51 to dispatch…"

"**This is LA," **the dispatcher came back. **"Go ahead Engine 51…"**

"LA, Engine 51. We're gonna need an ambulance at our location…"

"**10-4, 51. Ambulance responding…"**

**

* * *

  
**

The paramedics reached their Captain's position in under a minute.

In less than three, they had their victim lying outside on a drop sheet and were already contacting Rampart and administering oxygen.

* * *

Within fifteen minutes, the crews had the fire suppressed and were about to begin overhaul operations.

* * *

Stanley and Stoker were draining and retrieving hose lines. The two men suddenly straightened up and turned to one another, as the entire building began to '_crea-eak_' and '_groa-oan_'.

Some of the old wooden structure's fire-damaged support beams were failing. The rest of the wooden timbers were unable to bear the building's shifting weight. The whole store was about to come down on them like a house of cards!

The ominous sounds sparked all of the firefighters to action. The men dropped the hoses and pike poles from their hands and began racing towards the building's exits—at breakneck speed.

* * *

Stanley and Stoker were knocked to their knees, as something suddenly came crashing down from above, striking both men on the right side of their helmeted heads.

* * *

Station 51's paramedics heard an ominous rumble. They turned around just in time to see two of their crewmates being carried out of the collapsing store's front doors.

DeSoto tore a couple more drop sheets open and then quickly spread them out on the pavement.

"What happened?" Gage anxiously inquired, as the rescuers carefully lowered their burdens down onto the blankets.

"We don't know," one of the guys from 127's said.

"When we found 'em, they were lying beside a fallen beam," one of two guys from 12's volunteered.

Gage glanced up from his groggy, but conscious comrades. "Did it hit 'em?"

"You tell me," the other guy from 12's replied and promptly proffered his shiftmates' protective headgear.

John gazed up at the damaged equipment in disbelief. A thick, nylon strap had been popped from its mooring on his Captain's helmet, and there was a huge crack in the other's right front brim. Gage closed his gaping mouth and immediately went to work. He passed his partner a slip of paper containing victim two's vitals. "Mike, you hurtin' anywhere—besides the right side of your head?"

"No. This is silly," Stoker stated, as a cervical collar was carefully applied. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my neck."

"It's just precautionary," Gage patiently explained. "Any blow forceful enough to break your helmet, is forceful enough to cause _associated_ injury."

"I don't need _that_, either!" the engineer assured him, as a nasal canula was positioned and the O2 began to flow freely.

"It's just precautionary. If you do have any brain damage, the oxygen will minimize the swelling."

"What's _that_ for?" Mike anxiously inquired, upon seeing the packet the paramedic was about to rip open. "I don't need an IV! It's just a little bump! I didn't even lose consciousness!"

"It's just precautionary. And it is not a _little bump_. You've got a goose egg on your right temple the size of a...goose egg," Gage summed up, suppressing a slight smile.

"Rampart's asking about victim two's level of consciousness..." Roy announced and handed over a list of written instructions, which his partner immediately began to carry out. "Any signs of confusion or abnormal behavior?"

"The patient is alert and coherent. Mike admits that he was momentarily dazed but claims he never actually lost consciousness. There, uh...does seem to be some _confusion_ as to which one of us is the paramedic and which one of us is the patient, though...and the victim is _abnormally_ talkative," John added, with another wry smile.

Mike managed a bashful grin.

The paramedic's partner passed along the _pertinent_ information. Roy concluded his conversation with Nurse McCall. Then he shifted his weight and squinted off across the floodlit staging area. The pavement was awfully hard on the knees, and the floodlights were awfully hard on the eyes. _Clements Supermarket_ didn't look so _super_ anymore. The old, wooden-framed store had been reduced to a giant pile of rubble. "Dix says Dave Peddington's condition has been upgraded to _guarded_," he announced.

Every fireman within earshot rejoiced at that bit of good—er, _great_ news.

Peddington, who worked out of 8's, had been caught in _another_ building collapse earlier that very morning. It had been touch and go for their fellow firefighter all day and, for awhile, it didn't look like he was gonna make it.

With their second victim taken care of, and the good news declared, DeSoto returned his undivided attention to the fireman seated on the drop sheet beside him. "Why don't you just _lie back _and re_—_"

"—Where's Marco?" Hank demanded, noting that one of his crewmembers remained unaccounted for.

"We emptied all of our air bottles—even the ones off the Squad. He grabbed two and went off to see about gettin' 'em refilled," Roy replied and tried, once more, to get his uncooperative Captain to assume a _horizontal_ position.

"I'm okay, Roy!" Stanley re-insisted and brushed the man's hands from his shoulders.

"It's just precautionary," Station 51's senior paramedic parroted. "Do you have any idea how _difficult_ it is to _break_ a helmet strap, Cap?" he asked and dangled the broken bit of protective headgear up in front of his obstinate Superior's sweaty, soot-covered, concern-filled face.

Hank exhaled a resigned sigh and reluctantly _reclined_ himself.

DeSoto suppressed a rather wry, sly smile of his own and began his IPS.

Their missing crewmate came jogging up just then, carrying a couple of freshly filled air cylinders. "What's going on?" he pondered, upon spying 51's _grounded_ Captain and Engineer.

"Mikey and the Cap tried _beaming_ themselves out of the building," Chet took liberties to explain. "Only, they used a **real** _beam_, instead of a _transporter_," he continued, amidst muffled chuckles. "Fortunately, Captains and Engineers are so hard-headed, they survived the ordeal. Unfortunately, their helmets are both history..." Kelly solemnly concluded, and held their lucky colleagues' damaged equipment up for Lopez to examine.

A thick, nylon strap had been popped from its mooring on one helmet, and there was a huge crack in the other's right front brim.

"I'd rather have a hard head than a thick skull," Stoker taunted right back. "Like _some people_ I know..." he slyly added.

There followed another round of muffled chuckles.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" someone suddenly—and rather authoritatively—stated, above the purring of the portable generators that were illuminating their floodlights.

All eyes riveted in that someone's direction—and all jaws dropped!

The Los Angeles County Fire Department's new Chief Engineer was standing before them, basking in the gaudy glow of their floodlights.

The imposing figure was flanked, on both sides, by at least a half-dozen Battalion Chiefs.

"William Jenner," the Department's new 'head honcho' introduced with a warm smile and a wave. "As you were, Captain!" he strongly advised, upon seeing the crew's fire officer starting to rise. "51..." the chief Chief continued, noting the number on their helmets and the helmets in one of the fireman's hands. "We dropped by 51's earlier this evening. But nobody was home."

"These guys just saved my life!" the smoke inhalation victim from Aisle 6 suddenly blurted out, speaking from behind his oxygen mask.

"It seems it's been _that_ kind of a shift," Jenner proudly replied. He'd taken the opportunity to look over 51's _busy_ logbook. "Hopefully, they'll _all_ be back saving lives again very shortly..."

"The hospital may want to keep our Engineer overnight for observation," Roy informed him. "But I'm fairly confident our Captain, here, will be cleared for duty, Chief."

"Great! Then the next time we meet you should _all_ be _vertical _again_._" The head Fire Guy flashed them all another warm smile. "Carry on!" he gently urged. Then he—and his entourage—stepped back into the shadows and out of sight.

Well, the enigma of who THEY were was finally solved.

Which led to another, even bigger mystery. How on earth could Gage have possibly known THEY were coming?

"It's just one of those...inexplicable...quirky...fluky things," the seemingly clairvoyant paramedic explained, as he felt his fellow firefighters' stares suddenly settle upon him. "Every time the Squad gets a _cancelled_ 'man down' call, the Station gets a visit from headquarters. Ev-er-y time. _Without fail_."

"That's pretty darn quirky, fluky, all right..." Kelly insincerely agreed. "I don't think _Mikey's_ the one with the possible brain damage," he added, speaking softly—but not quite _beneath_ his breath.

A third bout of stifled laughter ensued.

"Oh-oh shut up, Chet!" Gage grouched, but then was forced to grin.

* * *

Engine 51's skeleton crew of two was only 'in house' for a few minutes, when they heard the garage door start grinding open. They glanced up from the tabletop they'd been mindlessly studying and watched, rather wearily, as Roy backed the Squad into its spot in the parking bay.

Gage wasn't the only paramedic whose predictions were proving to be accurate, for their Captain had, indeed, been _cleared for duty._

"They're keeping him overnight, just for observation," Hank announced, as he came into the rec' room, carting a brown paper bag.

"Who is headquarters sending over?" Marco wondered.

"Nobody. Mike's always claimed that's he's irreplaceable. The _powers that be_ must agree, because headquarters is standing the Station down...just until we get our engineer back. Which should, hopefully, be about the time the wake up tones go off."

"Far out!" Chet jubilantly declared, grateful for the respite. "What's in the bag, Cap?"

"To celebrate our _well-deserved_ break, John is generously treating us all to a late-night snack."

"John…as in John Ga-age?" an incredulous Chet Kelly inquired.

Stanley grinned and nodded.

"Man! If Gage is springing for the snacks, he's gotta have some _serious_ brain damage!"

"Shut up, Chet!" John calmly requested and set the paper sack he was carting down on the counter, beside the Captain's.

Chet shot up out of his chair. "So-o...What're you dishing up? Crow?...Or humble pie?"

"Yeah," Marco stepped up to the cupboard. "We gonna need plates?...Or bowls?"

"Neither!" the snack supplier stated. He slid the silverware drawer open and snatched up a spoon. Gage then grabbed a half-gallon container from one of the sacks, crossed over to the couch and settled into the comfy, empty, leather-covered cushion, beside their dozing Basset Hound. "No need to dirty up a bunch a' dishes. One of the _many_ truly magnificent things about ice cream, is that you can eat it right out of the box." To prove his point, he tore the lid off the container in his lap and scooped up an enormous quantity of the icy, strawberry flavored stuff. "Mmm-mmm! Yummy for the tummy!" he muttered gleefully, and then shoveled the cool, tasty treat into his watering mouth.

Marco began emptying the paper sacks. Their benefactor had bought a carton of everybody's favorite flavor. There was his maple nut... Chet's butterscotch marshmallow swirl...Roy's rocky road...Cap's pistachio...and even some of Mike's butter pecan.

"He-ey, Ga-age! Don't go getting your _germs_ all over that!" Chet chided. "I want _strawberry_, too!"

John just snickered.

"What's so funny?" Kelly wondered.

"He _knew_ you were going to say that," Stanley replied. "He told us that you were going to want whatever flavor he picked."

"No way!" Chet came back. "How could he?" he further inquired, seeing his Captain continuing to nod.

"In fact, he was so sure, he bought an extra half-gallon of strawberry...just for you!" Hank added, and passed the pouting practical jokester his own _germ free_ carton of the requested flavor.

"Must be another one of those quirky, fluky things..." Roy reasoned lightly, as he returned from a quick trip to the latrine.

"Na-ah. There's nothin' quirky o-or fluky about it," John corrected. "Chet is just so gosh-da-arn _predictable_!"

Kelly turned to Stanley, looking completely crushed. "Am I _predictable_, Cap?"

"Evidently so, pal..." his Captain informed him and tapped the frosty container in the forlorn fireman's hands a few times, for emphasis.

Kelly recovered, and quickly traded the strawberry for his all-time favorite, butterscotch marshmallow swirl.

John witnessed the swap and snickered anew. "Yup! Good ol' _predictable _Kelly_..."_

"Yeah? Well...just remember, Johnny-boy. _The Phantom_ remains completely **un**predictable! Even **he** doesn't know where—or when—he will strike next!"

Johnny-boy's amused look vanished and he swallowed nervously.

His crewmates glanced at each other and grinned.

The Phantom wasn't _completely_ **un**predictable.

The guys were pretty confident that they could accurately predict **who** his next victim was gonna be.

**The End ;)  
**

Author's note: IPS stands for Initial Patient Survey.


End file.
